There was a monthly payment from Flosi into her account. This was a generous amount and exceeded Guðrún’s monthly outgoings, so over an extended period a sizeable amount had built up. Six months ago there had been a healthy three million krónur there. But not now. Daníel scrolled down the list of transactions, pausing at the red lines indicating withdrawals. As well as the usual outgoings, there were a few payments to other accounts; not via a debit card but direct transfers between accounts. These recipients included a Jón Jónsson, who had twice been paid twenty thousand krónur, the second payment having taking place yesterday. A week ago Guðrún had paid sixty-five thousand krónur to someone called Karl Leósson.

  Three months ago a new series of frequent but irregular transfers had begun. The first had been for two hundred thousand krónur, then two weeks later a three-hundred-thousand payment, and so on, week after week, right up to the last transfer ten days ago, which had been for half a million krónur. That had left the account as good as empty. All of these payments had been made to a company called Sigurlaug slf, and the suffix told Daníel that this was an unlimited liability company. He would have to ask Flosi in the morning if the name Sigurlaug slf meant anything to him.

  Daníel closed his laptop and lay back on the sofa in the little TV corner of the living room. He pulled over himself the duvet Flosi had lent him and closed his eyes, but his thoughts continued to tick over, everything he had just found out becoming part of the mix that he hoped would properly take shape before too long.

  Guðrún’s life had been quiet and uneventful, with regular habits that had begun to change around three months ago, when she had begun to make increasingly large payments to whatever Sigurlaug slf actually was. In the last few weeks Guðrún appeared to have departed considerably from what had been her usual behaviour for as far back as Daníel had examined her account. The gym had completely dropped out of the picture and there had been flowers only once in the last month. Could that be significant? Could this Sigurlaug slf be a front for some blackmailer who had his hooks into Guðrún and had finally made a move when her money had run out? Or did this company have links to someone who knew that Flosi had fat bank accounts overseas? According to Flosi, apart from himself, Guðrún and Sara Sól, nobody knew about this hidden cash. Flosi dealt with Michael the accountant in Edinburgh personally, so there was no question of a secretary or assistant anywhere who knew anything.

  Daníel’s thoughts were beginning to drift away from the mix whirling through his mind, spinning into disjointed dreams, when he was startled into wakefulness by the sound of the phone ringing. It was the landline. He quickly sat up, reaching for the earpiece that allowed him to listen in on the call. It was almost midnight, not a considerate time to be calling, so this had to be something interesting.

  ‘Flosi—’ a thin female voice said, but Flosi immediately interrupted.

  ‘I can’t talk now. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll just call back if you hang up,’ the woman said, with desperation in her voice.

  ‘Something has come up,’ Flosi said quickly, and it was clear that he wanted to end the call as soon as possible. ‘Something came up so I can’t talk now.’

  ‘You’re not answering your mobile, so I had to call the home number. I know I shouldn’t, but I must speak to you, my love.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Flosi said. ‘Promise.’

  He put the phone down.

  Daníel lay back and sighed. The woman had said ‘my love’ before Flosi had hung up. Flosi and Guðrún’s marriage maybe wasn’t as perfect as he had wanted them to think. Daníel’s list of questions for Flosi in the morning had just got a lot longer.

  WEDNESDAY

  17

  Flosi could hear the policeman pottering about downstairs, but he wasn’t yet ready to look him in the eye. He had lain awake half the night; in between bouts of terror at the increasingly horrific images his mind conjured up of what could have become of Guðrún, he had tried to think of some plausible tale he could spin about last night’s phone call. He had blocked Bergrós’ number on his mobile when the police had started monitoring it, but that hadn’t been enough. Although it was a golden rule between them that she should never call his home number, of course that was what she had done, and at the worst possible moment. He knew perfectly well that Bergrós didn’t respect the usual rules and limitations.

  He felt a painful stab of regret. He had always been able to rely on Guðrún. She was unvarying in her habits and he always knew where he stood with her. He now regretted undervaluing this part of her personality. Bergrós had come across as so exciting and spontaneous in comparison with Guðrún’s solid predictability. Bergrós constantly took him by surprise and had set the blood pumping in his veins so hard that he felt he had shed years.

  But now he would have given anything to be free of Bergrós’ impulsiveness. He’d also have been delighted not to have to explain himself to the policeman waiting downstairs, who had undoubtedly put two and two together and made at least seven.

  Flosi tiptoed to the bathroom to pee, taking care to tread lightly; although the house was built of concrete, the thud of footsteps could still carry through the floor. He remembered that from when Sara Sól had been small and he had heard her skipping around upstairs. He didn’t flush, but closed the lid of the toilet and sneaked back to the bedroom. He wasn’t going downstairs until he had thought up some plausible tale that meant last night’s phone call didn’t undermine what he had told the police yesterday – that his marriage was as solid as a rock.

  And in fact, now that Guðrún was gone, he needed to face up to the cold, hard reality that their marriage was actually a good one. He always looked forward to coming home to her, and to eating her food, to telling her about his day while they listened to the evening news on the radio. He loved the feel of her warm hands massaging his tired shoulders. The only thing he didn’t look forward to was the late evening – the snores accompanying the television, the predictability, the monotony. That’s where Bergrós had come into the picture. Bergrós offered passion and adventure and unbridled delight. But that didn’t mean he no longer loved Guðrún. He would have to find a way to explain this to the policeman downstairs. Because from what he had seen in every one of the cop shows that Guðrún had fallen asleep over, when something happened to the wife, the prime suspect was always the husband.

  18

  Daníel had woken early, and went quietly to the kitchen, where he sent Facebook messages to his children in Denmark before making coffee. He made a full pot so that there would be enough for Flosi when he came downstairs, but so far there was no sign of him. It was as well for him to get some sleep. He would need all his wits about him for the grilling Daníel intended to give him concerning last night’s phone call.

  When he had been younger it had annoyed him when people told untruths. He felt that it was disrespectful to his role as a police officer when people he was trying to help lied to him. But these days he simply expected everyone to lie about something. Experience told him that it was somehow hard-wired into people to lie about things of which they were ashamed. Lies didn’t necessarily mean guilt, although it could certainly work that way. It was his job to figure out the distinction.

  Going by the way the woman had spoken, she was Flosi’s mistress, and his reaction showed that this was something he wanted to keep to himself. But yesterday he had been adamant that his marriage to Guðrún was very strong. In Daníel’s experience this kind of situation generally didn’t add up. People didn’t normally look for love elsewhere unless their relationship was flawed, or they were struggling with personal problems. He would have to know what the story was in Flosi’s case. This could be a key aspect of the investigation. The police needed to be aware of everyone who could have a connection to the case, and that included secret mistresses.

  Daníel refilled his mug and went into the living room, closing the door behind him. He swore quietly as he felt the sticky fingerprint powder on the door handle, and went back to the kitchen for a cloth to wipe it off. The forensics team no longer used this old-fashioned grey-black powder, except when their lenses and lights struggled to make out traces.

  He stood still for a moment before closing the living room door, listening out for movement, but there was no sound from upstairs. Flosi was either still asleep or else he wasn’t coming down.

  Daníel found the number for Kristján, who had been working overnight to set up facilities for the investigation team, and who had also been checking CCTV in the area.

  ‘There are no companies on that street or in the vicinity, except for the filling station and the Króna supermarket, but their cameras only cover their own car parks and don’t go as far the road,’ Kristján explained. ‘So there are no security cameras to check. The traffic cameras are all we have. There’s one at Álftanes on Reykjavíkurvegur, on the way out of town, and another at the bottom of Hjallabraut. There aren’t that many routes you can take without passing a traffic camera, but so far it doesn’t look like there’s anything relevant to be seen.’

  ‘Then tell Palli it’s his job to sit over it and write down the numbers of every car that went past on Monday, starting from when Flosi went to work, until he came home,’ Daníel said. Then thought for a moment. ‘Or longer. Let’s have every number up to when I turned up at the house yesterday afternoon. And tell him we want the time each one was seen.’

  ‘He’s going to be overjoyed,’ Kristján said, and Daníel could almost hear him grin.

  ‘Tell him I’ll buy him a case of beer if he comes up with anything useful. That should dampen his disappointment and encourage him to pay attention,’ Daníel said, smiling to himself at the thought of Palli’s expression when he found out what a long and boring job awaited him.

  After speaking to Kristján, he sent an email to Helena setting out the schedule for the first part of the day, and then opened the case files in the police’s LÖKE database to see what Kristján and Palli had uploaded the day before. They had quietly approached the two neighbours who had a view of Flosi’s and Guðrún’s driveway, without telling them why they were interested. They had simply asked if they had noticed anything unusual, and as nothing had come from their questions, they had decided not to do anything that could attract any attention in the neighbourhood. It was important not to let it become known that Flosi had called in the police, which was why they were putting so much emphasis on keeping traffic in and out of the house both well disguised and to an absolute minimum, in case it was being watched. In any case, the investigation would be managed from the station, and he would make sure the place was monitored for a call concerning the ransom.

  He decided that he would do most of this himself, as dealing with Flosi and those close to him were at the heart of the investigation. Experience told him that the key to the mystery of Guðrún’s disappearance was to be found somewhere in the circle of people around her and Flosi.

  19

  Helena woke to find Sirra already gone. She quickly dismissed any feeling of regret. It was always good to conclude a hook-up with toast and coffee, a couple of kisses, ‘have a great day’ and ‘see you soon’. It was a pleasure to look into each other’s eyes after such a night, and a delight to see Sirra’s beautiful smile the morning after. But it wasn’t remotely necessary, plus it would eat up half a valuable hour of work time. She let the espresso maker pump the coffee while she took a rapid lukewarm shower, stretched her neck muscles under the flow, and tripped with a towel around her waist to the kitchen to take the coffee off the stove before it had a chance to boil over and burn onto the hotplate.

  She took her coffee with her to the bathroom and sipped while she dried her short hair, put on face cream and added bronzing powder. Usually these were the only cosmetics she used. She used no make-up and ordinary deodorant was all the scent she needed. She put on dark-blue trousers and a thin, grey rollneck sweater over her singlet, and finally a dark-grey blazer. She checked herself out in the mirror while she finished what was left of her coffee and was satisfied with what she saw. It was amazing what a night with an attractive woman could do for your self-confidence. ‘Butch’ was what Beta had called her, but she would rather describe herself as neat. She wore simple clothes and no jewellery other than a watch.

  She poured the rest of the coffee from the pot and drank it standing at the kitchen worktop while she checked her email. A team meeting had been called for midday, but there was a job list for her from Daníel, and she felt the excitement mount inside her. Accompanied by the gnawing curiosity that came from working on a case that was far from clear. Their work was frequently about gathering information as evidence of events that had obviously occurred – the data they collated was there simply to convince the perpetrator to confess. But this kidnapping was mysterious and more than a little curious. Who on earth would kidnap a person and then demand money for her safe release? It was an enormously reckless plan and not exactly a strategy that any run-of-the-mill, small-time criminal would use to bring in some cash. The ransom was high, so this had to be someone who thought big, someone with extensive plans and the capacity for organisation.

  Her job list started with collecting a van marked as belonging to Flosi’s company, Garðvís ehf, so that they could come and go from his place without attracting undue attention. Then she was to check the records of a few people to whom Guðrún had made recent payments. Helena rinsed her coffee cup and placed it upside down on the drying rack. This was going to be an interesting day and she was raring to go. Her mind was ticking over like a freshly started computer, ready to take on a complex assignment. She smiled to herself as she left the building, mentally thanking Sirra for her company overnight.

  20

  Áróra had assembled the two hundred components of the Ikea chest of drawers that she intended to place, completed, in the hall by the time she heard the first of her neighbours leaving for work. Her last sleepless night had been more than a month ago. This kidnapping case had upset her, prompting painful and uncomfortable thoughts about her sister Ísafold’s disappearance, emotions she had only just learned how to keep at bay long enough to get some sleep.

  She put the chest of drawers together in the living room and wondered about putting a mat beneath it so she could drag it to its new home, but then realised that she had carried the flatpack up the steps, so it could hardly be heavier now that it had been assembled. It was a more awkward shape to carry, but by taking out one of the drawers, Áróra was able to pick it up easily and carry it to the hall. Having spent much of her childhood watching her father train for Highland games, she knew how to use her strength to shift heavy, bulky objects.

  She surveyed the results of her work with satisfaction. The chest of drawers looked fine under the window, and placing a green plant pot on top of it would make it both visually pleasing and practical. She recalled from her childhood the mess of hats, gloves, scarves and wool socks that could collect in the hallways of Icelandic homes, so these drawers would be useful as winter approached. Now she needed a thick, absorbent mat to place on the black-and-white diamond tiles, and then she would be satisfied.

  She wanted to take a picture and send it to her mother, but she wasn’t prepared for the conversation that would follow. She hadn’t told her mother that she had bought a flat in Iceland, but the fact would undoubtedly be revealed once her mother realised she was buying furniture for her nest. She knew that Áróra had a flat but assumed that she had rented it, that her spell in Iceland was something temporary and that once Áróra had regained her equilibrium, she would move back to Britain. But Áróra wasn’t on the way back to Britain, at any rate, not yet. Not until she had found her sister’s resting place. Not while there were so many questions about her disappearance that remained unanswered.

  Her enthusiasm for everything else had faded. Even the thought of rolling in a pile of money – as she had often done, quite literally, in the past, when she’d received a hefty bonus from completing a big case – was no longer that attractive. A certain peace of mind was needed to drink a whole bottle of champagne sitting in a bed strewn with banknotes. That peace of mind had been written off the day Daníel had given them the news that Ísafold was considered deceased. The investigation at the apartment where Ísafold and Björn had lived indicated overwhelmingly that her sister had been murdered there. Ever since that moment, there had been a hard ball of tension in her belly, which had pushed her to search and search. Because there was just one thing that would relieve the pain: being able to locate her sister’s body.

  Suspected of being responsible for Ísafold’s death, Björn had vanished without trace. He appeared to have walked out of the airport in Toronto and vanished. Áróra’s own search efforts had yielded no better results than those of the Icelandic police and Interpol; after all, her speciality was searching for money, not people. And she had already checked to see if Björn had left any kind of money trail behind him.

  Áróra went back to the living room, lay on the mat among the remnants of the packaging that had come with the chest of drawers and did a few leg lifts. Then she turned over and did a hundred press-ups without a break, followed by fifty knee bends. She was bathed in sweat by the time she had finished, although this was nothing like a real work-out. She’d have to go to the gym and lift some proper weights. Her father wouldn’t have been impressed if he had known how she had neglected training recently.